Zoltan Galos

Zoltan Galos Poems

Zoltan Galos Biography

Born in eastern Austria, close to the border of Hungary, he witnessed as a boy the horrors of a nation’s brutal suppression, erupting in the Hungarian Revolution of 1956. He finished his education in art and architecture in Vienna, married and sailed for Africa, an adventure that followed his childhood dreams. He had drawn African animals for his art classes, but the time had come to see them in their natural habitat. Meeting a varied facet of people and cultures, working as a draughtsman in an Engineering office, as an architect for a cultural centre, as a coordinator with professionals and craftsmen, he made good use of his language skills travelling throughout Southern Africa. During a trip to Lesotho, a native artist showed him rock paintings with their stark palimpsest outlines and typified movements of animals and humans. It made a lasting impression on him and influenced his artistic work. His vast collection of drawings and slides had been lost during a change of domicile, but further studies about the art of the San people reawakened his dormant artistic longing for expression, filling sketchbooks with drawings and notebooks with prose. While revisiting the capitals of Europe, he sensed the bond of art being without borders and free, reaching out across continents into the world. During a visit to Greece, he became accepted into a circle of poets and encouraged to further his writing. In South Africa he joined writing and poetry workshops that lead to opened up the floodgates of his creativity. He decided to travel through Greece and visit its sites of antiquity, read up on Classical mythology and to enjoy translations of Greek poetry and prose.)

The Best Poem Of Zoltan Galos

My World Is Colour

My world

My world is colour
The artist in me splashed all
Over the white canvas
And run-off's dropp into words
A creative spirit's bursting shower
Of white blood
His heart opening wide
Red and fiery for his muse
To join into the orange glow
Of a bit of dying
While the writer's pen
Clasped between his fingers
Emerges from the dusk
Challenged to a dialogue
In a never - ending stretch of road
That winds around the artist's
Inner core
Like raking vines onto the
Wooden slatted retreat.
My world is colour
With ever - changing hues.

Zoltan Zelan
(c) ZJG-POetry 2011.

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